I have eternally been hunting for a sort of exaltation that can only come with travel. With wine and cheese, French windows and hearing a homeless man play the accordian on some forgotten cobble-stoned street of Montmartre. Or chancing upon a dainty little thing sitting by the Sienne looking up at Notre Dame and sketching away on her small notepad, which could not even dream of doing justice to what her eyes saw and the way her fingers went. Walking through Parisian streets, with a craned neck - looking up at arches and little potted plants which more than outdid themselves by making this old city the prettiest ever. Through lit nights, and stirring dawns.
Or hauling luggage down thirty streets and between a change of trains, only to be greeted by a rather lazy sunset in a sleepy town in the Alps. As the blue of the evening sky melted into an inky sprawl, my heart could not help but return to those nights after nights spent alone, and the past year which had brought with it so much harm and bitterness. The ache in my shoulders may not let me sleep tonight - but it fills me with a sense of satisfaction that is mine, and mine alone. To be known by nobody else.
They must've fastened these wanderlusting wings at my ankles right at birth. They make me restless, always thirsting for more.
Knowing more.
Seeing more.
Being more.
Or hauling luggage down thirty streets and between a change of trains, only to be greeted by a rather lazy sunset in a sleepy town in the Alps. As the blue of the evening sky melted into an inky sprawl, my heart could not help but return to those nights after nights spent alone, and the past year which had brought with it so much harm and bitterness. The ache in my shoulders may not let me sleep tonight - but it fills me with a sense of satisfaction that is mine, and mine alone. To be known by nobody else.
They must've fastened these wanderlusting wings at my ankles right at birth. They make me restless, always thirsting for more.
Knowing more.
Seeing more.
Being more.
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